ARTICLES

The Angel, The Devil, and The Prophet

The Angel, The Devil, and The Prophet
G3-UNMASKED October 29th, 2003

“Let me tell you a little story about The Angel, The Devil, The Prophet, and the mescaline visions of The Psychic…one day, you have to write this all down…” Nostradamus as said to Barbara Fara circa 1980.

There is always a story to tell when the devil, Steve Vai is involved.
Look at it from a logical place-Vai is famous for setting a fucking mood. In 2003, my current favorite Vai track is Murder. What can I say-a lot of people have pissed me off lately. –In the 1980’s, I was into Zappa a little bit-he was funny and could play a wicked ass guitar. In the 1980’s, I got into him a little more because he picked up a hot young guitar demon named Steve Vai-which made me…uhh, in a mood. What can I say-it was the 1980’s -hair, spandex, a tight ass, and talent made me happy in all the right places. I was Only Seventeen and a wild child. –But on with the fucking story and my very own wicked, wicked ways. I was also very much into Morrison at the time, as a matter of fact I still am. I believed very much in a long derangement of the senses to open your doors of perception. My friends thought I was crazy because I always knew things that would happen before they actually happened. They also thought I was fucking crazy because I could talk to dead people-something that has never gone away over the years and now I am glad about it, but when I was a kid it made me seem like a special kind of a psycho-nobody ever said the word psychic then so I thought I was a whack job too. So I grabbed a hold of that Morrison train of thought about excess, because I knew something was up. I knew I was going to find something out that was very fucking important-I just didn’t know what. Morrison, in a sense, became one of my guides. I drank Jack Daniels. I drank Jack Daniels to feel Mojo Rising, and I smoked to get in touch with the universe. –One night, a friend came over with an early Christmas present. This friend knew about my identifying with Morrison-and had scored Peyote in Nevada. He walked into my apartment, sat it on my coffee table, told me what it was, smiled, and walked out. I had to ask myself a question at this point-What would Jim do? Why did I have Peyote on my coffee table, and how the fuck did my friend score that? But more importantly, what would Jim do? There was no question-Jim would do the fucking Peyote and SEE what the universe had to say to him. So, I swallowed that little white button and after ten minutes I threw up. I thought it was a fucking waste, or that my friend had played a bad joke on me. I went to the kitchen, got some water, lit a cigarette, and sat down and started to plan on how to get even with that cocksucker for trying to poison me.
So let me set the scene. I am in the kitchen, with my glass of water on the table. I have a lit cigarette in my hand, and I am staring out the window. There is a calendar on the wall next to the window, and the room starts to feel really fucking cold to me. The calendar pages start flipping up and down quickly and I get really fucking freaked. Then I notice the years are changing on that calendar-and the room becomes a fucking blur. Shit, this would be why Morrison would have done the peyote. Scary, spooky shit-with fucking Zappa playing in the background. Why in the hell didn’t I put on Moonlight Drive? -I think it is amazing, the shit that goes through your mind. Fucking Zappa must have been on for a reason. –The room blurred and the calendar fucking jumped around for a really long time. I tried to get up out of the chair, but I couldn’t. Not being able to get up out of the chair scared the shit out of me. I tried to move, but I couldn’t. My mind was awake, but my body was paralyzed. Men in black, hooded cloaks were grabbing at my feet and pulling me-trying to get me to come to them. I thought I was going to die, and all because of a little fungus. –The room slowed down and turned to stone, like a war room. I felt my guide Von behind me, and he was pissed because somebody was fucking with his kid-at this point I knew I was not just on a drug trip that had gone bad. I knew something was up. –The calendar slowed down and stopped on 1542. Oh shit man! What the fuck? I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder, and I turned my head. I thought it was fucking strange that I could finally move. –When I turned my head, I saw a man in a long black leather robe. He had long black curly hair and a goatee. OH SHIT-THE FUCKING REAPER oh shit shit shit. THIS IS THE END. –The man spoke, ‘No Barbara, I am not the reaper.’
I said BULLSHIT. He said, ‘No, my name is Michael. Michael Nostradamus and I have been waiting on you for a long damned time.’ -FUCKING NOSTRADAMUS…I answered politely. You must know then that my real name is fucking SANTA CLAUS. –Nostradamus laughed, ‘Why don’t you just ask Von?’ I said to this fucking Michael character-how the fuck do you know Von? He said, ‘He is standing right there behind you-to your left. Hello Von.’
Okay. So I got it. I was in 1542 talking to Michel de Nostradamus-who liked to party too. I asked my in my ever so polite way, ‘You got me. What the fuck do you want?’ ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a hit off of this. That trip always makes me fucking nauseous-I am a doctor and it is not illegal yet. We have to talk, because people are going to fuck up one of my predictions about the 20th and 21st centuries and me, an angel-and the devil. You know-the Devil told me how to avoid getting the black plague. You should always stay away from the rats-so I owe him one. I found you. I saw you though my glass-and you are the only one for the job.’ -WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME, AND WHY SHOULD I GIVE A FUCK, I said ever so sweetly. ‘Let me tell you a little story about The Angel, The Devil, The Prophet, and the mescaline visions of The Psychic…one day, you have to write this all down…’ and I said with what I don’t have any fucking Bic. Michael said, ‘You are a fucking psychic-Not a PSYCHO. You will write it down when the time is right. When the time is right, it will come to you like a flash of light.’ Of course, I said uh-huh and took another toke. They had some really good shit back then.
Michael said, ‘Look into my glass kid. We have to talk about the late twentieth century first. This is the quatrain that they are going to fuck up. It hasn’t been published yet, and yes I see enough of the future to know what published is. I have to write my predictions like this so I don’t get burned. You know, I was on the run from the Inquisition for six years. Remember that number six.’

Sitting by night in my secret study,
Alone, resting upon the stool of brass,
A slight flame, going out of the solitude,
Makes me pronounce what is not to be believed vain.
The wand in hand, set in the middle of the branches,
From the wave I wet both the hem and the foot,
In fear I write, trembling in the sleeves,
Divine splendor: the Divine seated nearby.
(From Centuries, 1555-58)

I asked him-how are they going to fuck it up. It makes no fucking sense to me at all. Michael answered, ‘Look. I know I am going to die in 1566-and I don’t want it to be any sooner so JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND I WILL TELL YOU.’ I said nice fucking mouth Mikey-and he said you rub off on a guy little one just listen.’ Michael continued, ‘All the powers of the universe meet in your century. They meet in a very strange way-through the guitar. They meet through the music. The son of the Angels has been born-his name is Joe Satriani. The son of the Devil has been born. His name is Steve Vai. Little Stevie thinks he has won the job of the Devil-but he doesn’t really know that he was the old devil’s son. If the old devil’s wives EVER found out that he did it with an angel-GOD WOULD THEY COOK HIM FOR DINNER. Me, I am already there too. My name in that life is Yngwie Malmsteen. When I saw all of that fucking guitar playing, I just had to join in. I had my reasons, and we will talk about that later. See, I don’t know who I am in that life-and somebody has to tell me. Look at me though-I play a great fucking guitar.’
I looked though the glass as I toked on Mike’s pipe. I asked him, what year are we looking at? Mike said 2003. I said, from my research, the world is supposed to end in 2000. Mike said, ‘Idiots. See they fuck things up. That is why you are here. Somebody has to get this one right, because I owe the devil about the Black Death thing.’
Mike had good pot-so I listened and looked into his glass. Mike said, ‘That is me. In that life, I am Yngwie Malmsteen there. Look at the way the colors swirl around me and my massive fucking sound. Listen to me play. I am telling them about the divine and the devil and the prophet. I am EVEN telling them about the devil having an affair with an angel and the new devil being born. I am telling them about the birth of Satriani and why the two of them wound up in Long Island. Nobody knows what I am doing-and somebody needs to tell them what I am doing.’ I was looking, and it was hot-I kept looking. ‘Look at that,’ said Mike. ‘That’s the Devil Vai. Watch him.’ And I looked through the black mirror to see Steve Vai make love to his guitar in a way that was even more sensual than it was in 1980. I watched I crowd of people stand up and cheer, tossing their very souls to him, and I watched him send nothing but love back for what seemed to be his loyal subjects. I kept watching. ‘Look there,’ said Mike. ‘That is the Angel Satriani. He wears that hat so people cannot see that he was marked by god at birth. Did you notice the devil plays a white guitar, and the angel plays a red one? Notice the differences between the angel and the devil. Vai makes the crowd a part of the music. He feeds them into each note and makes it a devilishly sexy thing to see. Satriani takes the crowd on a trip to the stars and tries to make them see what he sees. The Devil here in this picture is on the earth, and the Angel is on a trip to the stars. The Devil is about feeling, and the Angel is about sight. Both are doing what they have been born to do-and we WILL talk about them again quite soon.’
Okay-I said. But once again, what the fuck does this have to do with me? ‘Listen to me,’ Mike said. ‘You aren’t there yet. It is the eighties for you and I have to return you to your time so you can record all of this when you are supposed to, because I owe the fucking devil a favor. You would think he was going to start something called Favored Nations or something, shit. –You are going to go through a lot of shit and move to Atlanta. You are going to go to a Cranberries concert,’ –Who the fuck are the Cranberries, I said-and leave NEW YORK?!? NEVER- ‘Oh fuck yeah, you forget that I see the future don’t you? You are going to have a flash of inspiration and become the only psychic of your time to write about music. That is why you are here. See, I write about the end of the world-and you are going to write about music and how it influences the world and tells the story of the world. Believe it or not, you are going to be different. That is why the Devil has tapped you on the shoulder. Somebody has to tell the story of the Angel, the Devil, and the Prophet-and tell it the right way. They do not burn people at the stake in your time, or make them submit to the Inquisition. The worst they can do to you is try to wreck your reputation-or try to destroy you financially. You will have your life. –We will meet-the Angel, the Devil, and the Prophet-in a place called Atlanta. We will meet in a church of Baptists called the Tabernacle. Me, as Malmsteen-and you, will do this in this sixth year of the three guitars in the year 2003. Six is the number of purification and power-and neither of us will be there until then so that the Devil knows I have paid my debt in full.’
Finally, Von spoke. ‘Hello Michel. You think you know me, and you do not. I find you irritating, and I do not like you because you are a witch. We did not ask to be here with you. We heard what you said-and NOW WE GO!’ Von clicked his boots together three times and fired his gun into the air and we were back in my apartment in New York. I went to bed and forgot about it all for a very long time. –Over the years, Nostradamus’ predictions for me came true. I went through a lot of shit. I moved to Atlanta. I went to a Cranberries concert and decided to become the first psychic rock and roll journalist. And I will be damned, G3 came to Atlanta on 10/29/03. I had no choice. I had to go-how could I refuse? Malmsteen looked just like I remembered him, with those colors swirling around him and his leather. His playing was massive and over the top in a way that spoke of the angel and the devil and the end of the world. Vai looked just like I remembered him on his throne playing three guitars at the same time. Vai’s riffs reminding me of thundering waterfalls and Atlanta just having a big old love fest with the Devil and his snarly lip-and Atlanta really does love Vai. I met people at the concert that traveled over three hours just to see him. Jesus Christ-Satriani had on the hat I remembered too. Satriani took Atlanta on a trip to the stars with his dancing fingers
And silver curtains. The three of them played together at the end. The jam was all Hendrix, and they were amazing-even though it would have been better if the jam was all Stevie Ray Vaughn. –The show was divine, and the show was massively sexy and devilish. I would recommend ALWAYS seeing a G3 show. It was inspired, and it was at The Tabernacle. Visions do come true don’t they. –As I looked though my photos of the show, I looked into Malmsteen’s eyes. Nostradamus came back…the fucker did it.